The Worst Part
by NatureGirl202
Summary: One-shot drabble. "He's thankful it was a nightmare, because the nightmares aren't the worst part. The dreams are."


**A/N: What... what did I just write? Another Jason one-shot? One minute I'm working on All Fall Down and I take a quick break and watch a sob-worthy Jason video on Youtube. The next, I'm opening another Word document and writing this.**

Most of his nights are filled with nightmares. One moment, he's soaring above the streets, laughing and playfully taunting the shadow that follows him. The next, he's tasting blood in his mouth and finding it hard to breathe. He hears maniacal laughter echo around him, unrelenting and never ending. There's a ticking sound, signaling every last moment he has until death comes knocking on his door. He never gets to spend the moments the way he had always wanted to- beside those he treasured. Instead, his last moments are filled with pain and a nagging in his mind saying he should've done better, could've done better. The nagging joins the laughter and it's all he can hear until a deafening silence fills his ears.

But the nightmare doesn't end there. The deafening silence continues, but now he's in a confined space. It is no longer his crushed chest or collapsed lung that keeps him from breathing. It's the utter lack of _space_. There's hardly any room for the stale air inside, let alone him. And it's dark. So dark, he might as well have his eyes closed. His hearts beats so fast that he swears it'll vibrate right out of his chest. He starts to scratch at the walls, ignoring the sting as it tears the flesh from his fingers. He tries to call out the same name every time, but nothing comes from his mouth. How can he speak if he can't even breathe? The space suddenly collapses in on him. He always wakes up after that. He's thankful it was a nightmare, because the nightmares aren't the worst part.

The dreams are.

When he dreams, he sees red and green and black and grey. He sees the hint of a smile and pride in two blue eyes. He smells pancakes and hears a peaceful humming. He feels _safe_. He feels like he _belongs_. He sees a piece of paper cementing a relationship in the government's eyes, but never erasing the questions in his mind.

The scene then transitions in a blur of light to vague images that he only ever sees in his sleep. Everything is peaceful. The place is so damn _beautiful_ that every ounce of negativity, every inkling of ever not being anything but perfect, just vaporizes. He never wants to leave this place, but that's always when he wakes up.

He blinks the tears out of his eyes. They're pointless. The pain he feels cannot be measured by tears. Besides, he can't show any weakness, not even to himself. If he does, he would certainly give up on himself. Like everyone else did.

The only thing that stops him from putting a bullet in his brain, besides the thirst for some sense of justice that he knows he will never feel again, is the fact that he knows Heaven won't take him back. And he's sure that the only place worse than where he is at now is Hell. Because in Hell, there's no guns to make your enemies disappear.

He gets out of bed and grabs the gun that he keeps under his pillow. It's fully loaded and he's thankful that he's no longer a restless sleeper. As far as his sheets tell him, he never moves when he's asleep. Maybe because his body was still for so long, it automatically goes back to that time.

He cocks the gun, then walks to the window of the abandoned apartment room he chose to make a temporary residence out of. Everything in his so-called life is temporary. Except for the pain, that is.

It's a strange kind of pain. He can't feel anything but the pain. He's become accustomed to it, however. So to him, he might as well be numb. He can pretend that he feels things, though. He's become a mighty-good actor over the years.

He aims his gun at the moon. Maybe he can shoot God. That would make them even, wouldn't it? He stands like that for what feels like an eternity. Everything is still in that moment. It's just him and the moon, a silent observer to every hell he's suffered and every hell he's raised.

He goes back to bed after that. He tends to have more control of himself after a good night's sleep.

He is Red Hood, and he'd be damned if he turns into some emotional sap.

**A/N: I think I may have gone a bit overboard on this, but... oh well. I used elements of some of my favorite Jason videos to help set the mood for this. That's about it. Please review and fave. I would use a happy face, but... this fic has made me sad. :(**


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